Obviously Oblivious
by Epicfangirl10
Summary: Many of us have been there; completely in love with someone who barely notices our existence. Molly finds herself contemplating her relationship with Sherlock, and why she just can't seem to move on and accept his lack of interest. Not Sherlolly. One shot, complete.


Molly tucked a disobedient strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to appear self conscious. But she had known that her morning was going to be the opposite of relaxing the moment he had walked in.

Suddenly, her ponytail holder had decided to periodically release bits of hair, and she'd realized she'd forgotten to put on lipstick. She always like to wear the bright red stuff to work, just in case he stopped by. And of course she wouldn't remember the day he did show up.

Not that he would notice these things anyway. The great detective and master of detail was usually too preoccupied to give her more than a passing glance.

But there were those few times, those fleeting moments when he stared _at_ her instead of through her. Molly melted under his dark piercing eyes, but she doubted he knew that. So she would burn while he deduced her imperfections.

Sherlock Holmes. Here he was, sitting in her lab, investigating something he had failed to inform her of. She could see his mind working, rolling through thoughts thirty times faster than she was capable of. Molly loved to watch those intense eyes while he worked; so dark, just like the curls that hung down onto his forehead. But when she stared, she got so little work done, and was afraid he would eventually notice.

So Molly contented herself with stealing a sideways glance every once in a while. His presence certainly made her day a lot more easy on the eyes.

But her heart? That was another matter entirely. Sherlock was the physical manifestation of a longing that would never be satisfied; she knew it, and he didn't even know that such a longing existed.

Oblivious. Not a word many would use to describe Sherlock Holmes, but in matters of the heart, he really was. Molly pursed her lips, absentmindedly wondering if he'd ever had a proper girlfriend.

"Molly."

His deliciously deep voice brought her thoughts back to the here and now. She turned to him, pretending that he was interrupting a deep set of thoughts concerning the cell analysis before her.

"Yes?" she replied, trying to keep her voice even. It had the nasty habit of squeaking at the worst possible times.

"Will you text me the results of this test?" he asked, still not quite meeting her gaze. "They should be finished in a couple of hours."

"Sure," Molly agreed. As if she would or could ever say no to this man.

Sherlock stood and put his coat on, securing his blue scarf snugly around his neck. He began to walk out, then turned to her, looking straight into her eyes. "Thank you."

Two words. Had her heart rate just doubled because of two words? How could he have such a profound hold on her without even trying?

Before her mind could even think of saying you're welcome, Sherlock was gone. Apparently waiting around for a reply would have been unnecessary social interaction.

One hour and fifty four minutes later, the test was complete, and Molly grabbed her cell phone. She really needed a new case; she had a habit of rubbing it whenever she was nervous, and the design was starting to wear off.

Sherlock's number was on the top of her contacts list, in her favourites. She started a new message.

_Blood alcohol content was 0.45%. MH._

_Idiot. SH._

Molly read the text three times. Had he really just called her an idiot?

_Excuse me? MH_

Twenty minutes passed before her phone vibrated again. Molly could have told herself that she didn't care if he returned her text, but the speed with which she grabbed it out of her pocket told her otherwise.

_No one drinks that much unless they want to die. Obvious suicide. SH._

Well, at least he hadn't been calling her an idiot.

_Congratulations on solving the case. MH._

No reply. Not that she'd expected one. He responded to less than half her messages, probably because she'd been communicating pointless social clichés, which weren't worth his time to acknowledge. It was sad, really, when she thought about it. There were other men in her life, ones who were interested in her romantically, yet her heart wouldn't stop chasing this man who barely gave her the time of day.

Sometimes, she got so frustrated with herself that she vowed to get over Sherlock, and for good this time. She would begin dating someone new, convince herself that he was perfect, and then Sherlock would walk into work the next day and all her walls would come crumbling down. Because the truth was that no one was perfect for her except Sherlock.

Today, she didn't even feel like putting the walls up in the first place, and just let the pain seep in. Sometimes it hurt just as much to fight the emotions as to live with them. Molly sighed. It was always a roller coaster with him, only he was the one safely on the ground while she was barely hanging on.

Molly didn't feel like cooking dinner, so she stopped at a Chinese restaurant on the way back to her flat. When she'd arrived back home, she settled in on the couch to eat the vegetables and fried rice and watch some telly. She had just changed into her pyjamas when her phone vibrated.

_I require your assistance, come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. Bring your microscope. 221B Baker St. SH_

How did he know she kept a microscope in her flat for occasional late night projects? Then again, how did he know half of the stuff he knew? Molly tried to keep her smile to a minimum as she changed. What should she wear to go to Sherlock's flat? Nothing too fancy, but not her everyday work wardrobe either.

221B. As if she didn't already know his address.

Molly grabbed the small microscope, and was about to snatch her coat up and leave when she glanced at the time. 9:00 pm. She froze. It was going to get late fast, and she had to be at work early tomorrow. One text from him, and she was frantically on her way to do whatever he demanded. How long was she going to keep this up? How long _could_ she?

Molly picked up her phone again, re reading the words he had typed with those strong, slender fingers. She sighed. It was no use, not tonight anyway.

_I'm on my way. MH_

Molly hailed a cab and spent the short drive wondering what it could possibly be that Sherlock would need from her at this hour. Not that the man had any grasp of time; it wouldn't have shocked her too much if she'd received the text at 1:00 am.

It wasn't until she was standing in front of 221B that she realized this had been the first time Sherlock had texted _her_, instead of the other way around. It gave her the slightest glimmer of hope, which she promptly extinguished before John answered the door.

"Hello Molly, come on in." They walked up the stairs and John took her jacket. "Sherlock, Molly's here!" he announced.

Sherlock came in, dressed in a grey t-shirt and dark blue dressing gown. Molly almost giggled at the sight, but composed herself before Sherlock could notice. It certainly was a stark difference from the distinguished clothes she usually saw him in.

"Ah, Molly, you're here, good. I need that microscope."

Molly handed him the brown paper bag that contained the microscope, and he took it wordlessly. She wondered if she was even going to receive a thank you tonight.

Sherlock set the microscope down on the kitchen table, next to a bag of bloody things Molly didn't even want to know the identity of, and a few test tubes filled with brown liquid.

She stood there awkwardly as Sherlock put a few drops of the brown stuff onto a slide and stuck it underneath the microscope. John didn't seem to quite know what to do either, so they both stood there, watching Sherlock work. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice there was still anyone else in the room.

After ten minutes, Sherlock lifted his face and looked back at Molly. "I'm finished."

"Did you find out what you needed?" John asked, and Molly wondered what case he was working on.

"Yes. It was the chef."

John nodded. "Alright, well I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Molly."

"Night John," she replied. He left the kitchen, leaving only Sherlock and Molly staring at each other from across the microscope.

Sherlock blinked and began putting the microscope back in the bag. He handed it back to her. "Thank you."

Molly nodded; there were those two little words again, the ones that always made it hard to breathe. But wasn't it true that every word he said made it hard to breathe? Molly's stomach turned over. "You're welcome, anytime."

Sherlock didn't say anything else, so she began to walk towards the door. He followed her, opening it for her. "Goodnight, Sherlock." She looked back at him. His left hand was still on the door, his right hanging limply by his side. She had a fleeting vision of his right hand extending to pull her in for a kiss goodbye, but of course he didn't.

"Goodnight, Molly."

She stepped out, and he closed the door behind her. Molly sighed. It was going to take something drastic for her to get over Sherlock Holmes. Maybe she never would. And maybe that was okay.


End file.
